


You are the who, Love is the what and This is the why

by Kratsayra



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Arya Stark, F/M, Falling In Love, Jealous Jon Snow, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jon is smitten, King Rhaegar, Meant To Be, POV Jon Snow, Rhaegar Lives, Sassy Arya Stark, in every universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2020-12-16 07:16:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21032348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kratsayra/pseuds/Kratsayra
Summary: What do you know of my heart?





	1. Chapter 1

_Aren't you something to admire, 'cause your shine is something like a mirror_   
_ And I can't help but notice, you reflect in this heart of mine_   


  


__

  


She's dressed in grey, the soft silk wrapped around her form like a glove. Dark curls that are barely tamed fall down her back in a Northern hairstyle she favours in contrast to the other ladies in the room. 

She stands out in other ways too. He skin is beautifully pale but also flushed pink across her cheeks and the swell of her breasts revealed by the low scoop of the gown. There's a light in her eyes as she dances with her brother, the red headed wolf. A clear, unpretentious laugh leaves her lips when he japes with her, and the dancers around them turn to stare at the sight. 

And what a lovely sight she is. Arya Stark.

Jon is hypnotized. he stopped listening to Rhaenys as soon as he spotted her, unable to look anywhere else. A sharp pain on his arm makes him snap his face back to his sister.

"What?" He nearly growls.

"I said, you're staring," she hisses. 

"Hmm..." he says, his eyes already scanning the dancers again, looking for her.

"Jon! You're being extremely rude and quite obvious." She pinches him again. "Stop it! people are watching you."

He turns to Rhaenys and wants to roll his eyes at her, but he knows she's right. They watch him all the time, every minute of every day, as if he's going to grow a second head or steal the throne from Aegon.

"I wasn't being very obvious," he grumbles instead, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. 

"Oh really? You can explain yourself to her brothers, they look ready to murder you." Rhaenys nods towards the two younger wolves standing away from the dancers, their blue mutinous eyes on him.

Despite that, he can’t help when his traitorous gaze scans the dancers quickly. The dance has ended, and he spots her leaving the dance floor with her brother. But then Gendry Baratheon approaches them and she takes the hand he has offered her, returning with him to the dance floor and Jon grinds his teeth.

"Oh, seven hells!" 

Rhaenys then tugs his arm, pulling him away before he can obliterate the stag with his glare. He goes with her, turning back to watch Arya's grey skirts swish and wrap around Baratheon's legs when he twirls her, her accompanying laugh twists his stomach in knots. 

_Fucking bastard._

Rhaenys has led him out, into the gardens and the air is cold against the heat of his skin. He exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding and pulls his arm free of his sister's grasp. 

"They are going to talk"

"Let them talk, that's all they are good at."

"They are going to talk about how the youngest dragon is enamoured with the northern wolf. Everyone remembers what happened the last time _that_ happened." Rhaenys glares at him.

"I know the story of my birth, thank you sister." This was not the same, Arya Stark was- she was....

"She's Lyanna come again. That's what anybody could talk about since the Starks arrived this morning." She sighed, "I'd hoped to keep you away from the gossip, but you run your own ship."

_She's not my mother,_ Jon wanted to argue. But how could he, when he had never known his mother?

Jon shakes his head, "We need to go back, the King will address his lords soon...Yes, _yes_, I know. I'll behave," he hastily adds when Rhaenys narrows her eyes at him.

As he keeps his word, for the most part. 

"Do you enjoy dancing, my lady?" Well he hadn't promised not to approach her and the opportunity had presented itself when he noticed her slipping out of the hall, into the gardens. 

Arya Stark jumped at his voice, then frowned. "Is it a habit of yours? Jumping out of shadows?"

Jon grins. "I apologize, I was curious about my mother's family. I didn’t mean to startle you."

She looks at him, drawing closer when the realization dawns. "You're my cousin...Jon."

_Say my name again_, he thinks and closes the distance between them. 

Arya looks up at him in wonder, she's small, barely reaching his shoulder. "You're a Stark too," she tells him as a matter-of-fact. "Father said we would see you before the feast, but Ser Barristan Selmy said you weren't in the castle this morning when we arrived. You should have been there to receive us." Her lips turn down in disappointment and Jon can't help the flush rising up his neck. 

He had wanted to avoid meeting the Starks this morning. Any mention of them had always brought out the melancholy in his father, and Jon had come to dread even the mention of them. It seemed that after the Rebellion, everything that had anything to do with Jon's mother was a taboo at court.

"You never answered my question, do you enjoy dancing?" He wanted to change the subject.

"Well yes, I rather do." She smiles secretively, which makes Jon think she's enjoying a private jape.

He leans towards her, unable to resist, and twists his finger around a curl resting on her shoulder. "Then I must ask you to do me the honour."

Arya raises her eyebrow, studying him with those solemn grey eyes of hers. "Do you always try to woo women like this?"

Jon smiles roguishly. "No. You're special."

She steps back from him, and the curl slips from his finger, springing back to join the riot around her face. "The godswood, tomorrow before the sun rises." She smirks and steps around him.

He's not sure he's heard her right. Did she just ask him to meet her in secret? He can only hope she cannot hear his heart thumping inside his chest.

"Just dancing you know," she chuckles and then turns back to the hall. 

Jon can only stare. _The little minx_.

_Water_ Dancing.

That what she had meant, he understood now as he stands in the godswood, a practise sword in hand.

He had awoken early and sneaked out of his chambers through the secret passages of the Red Keep. It was the only way to meet her in the godswood alone, without Jaime Lannister shadowing his footsteps. He was eager to see her, desperate to know what sort of dance required them to meet secretly in the godswood. 

He wants to be disappointed that her thoughts weren't quite as perverse as his, but he can’t really say he is.

She dressed much like him, wearing only a light tunic and breeches and forgoing the jerkin in the heat of Kingslanding. 

He supposes the sight should shock him; it was not dignified nor proper for ladies to dress like that. But Jon thought she looked perfectly dignified with her head held high as she swished the wooden sword in the air in Braavosi fashion. 

"If you go easy on me, I'll knock you on your ass," she warns. But Jon is not going to, he wants to see how good she is. He can almost taste the excitement radiating from her when she takes her position. 

The first round he tests her, almost surprised at the speed she moves with. She dodges his thrusts calmly and Jon can feel her get agitated when he doesn’t do much else. But he's testing her, much like how she's testing him. And their dance is careful, tentative, almost _shy_.

With a frustrated growl she knocks him down with an elbow to his chest, and Jon shouts in surprise, landing on his ass. 

"I told you not to go easy on me," she grumbles and reaches out a hand to help him up.

Jon huffs. "Now that wasn't very honourable."

She rolls her eyes and takes up her position again. "But you're still dead."

The second round is all hers, she knocks him with the wooden sword so many times, that Jon is glad there is no one around to witness. She's quick and light on her feet, quite literally dancing out of his reach when he lunges. 

Then her sword slashes across his side and Jon has had enough. He grabs the sword and pulls her towards him. Arya loses her balance and crashes into his chest, but Jon has his sword against her neck. 

"Dead," he imitates her, grinning like a fiend. 

And damn him to hell, but the wench bares her teeth and twists away, her sword already aimed and ready. 

This time he knows her technique, and he wants to push her past the cool control she maintains and underneath to the fire he saw burning in her eyes earlier. 

Besides, his training with Arthur Dayne had to count for something right? 

So, he feints, and lets her dance around him, letting her get in a few hits before he finds an opening. 

He sweeps his sword in an arc at her feet, and Arya jumps to dodge it. But he expects that, so he twists around distracting her with his sword arm before pushing his knee between her legs and toppling her. His sword points at her face. 

A victorious smile was barely pulling at his lips, when Arya kicks his legs and topples him too. Jon puts his palm out to soften the fall, and her sword pokes at his stomach sharply. 

"_Dead_" she proclaims and gives him a triumphant smile.

And as Jon looks down at her, skin wet with perspiration, chest heaving and dark curls fanned around her face, and _gods_ she's beautiful. 

And he thinks _yes_, he just may be.


	2. Chapter 2

_Cause with your hand in my hand and a pocket full of soul_  
_I can tell you there's no place we couldn't go_

__

The smile stays on his face all morning, even when he spars with the men in the yard after breaking his fast. 

Aegon is watching him from the armoury where he is selecting his weapon for the day. He settles for a long double-edged spear. Something he has come to favour from his time being fostered in Dorne.

"Some wench put that smile on you, or are you just that happy I am betrothed?" He asks Jon when they start sparring. 

"I am happy you are betrothed."

Jon dodges his attack and skips when the spear sweeps in an arc at his feet.

"Ah, so it _was_ a wench."

Jon did not dignify that with a response. 

"Rhaenys told me you were quite taken by a certain lady yesterday."

Their weapons connect with a loud thwack and Jon grits his teeth. "She did?"

Aegon snorts. "She and Daenerys and Varys, and half the court, yes."

Jon groans and his brother's spear slashes behind his legs. Thank the gods for blunt weapons. 

"If it makes you feel better, Arya Stark was an exceptionally lovely sight to behold. Gendry Baratheon seemed quite taken too."

His blunt sword came down with a loud crash bringing his brother to his knees. "Gods damn you Jon, I was japing," Aegon wheezes before he gets back to his feet.

They dance around each other, suddenly more focused and serious. Their weapons clash and beat and retreat and there is a certain aura of seriousness in their spar.

When they finally stop, breathless and gasping as they peel off their sweaty leathers in the armoury Aegon says, "I hope you're not serious about pursuing her, Jon. Nothing good will ever come out of it. You know how they whisper about... Besides, I heard Baratheon was fostered at Winterfell for a while, and the two of them are very close."

"As friends-"

"He asked for her hand."

His heart stops, and Aegon presses his lips together. "She refused, but both families hope she changes her mind."

There is a small flutter in his chest. And as he returns to his duties at court, it is all Jon can think about.

_She refused_.

__

The Red Keep is crawling with guests of noble birth and even Maegor's Holdfast doesn't seem to be an exception. 

So, Jon finds himself navigating the Red Keep's tunnels more and more in order to avoid both stray and wandering guests. It is the one place no one had discovered yet.

_Yet_.

The patter of feet on the hard-stone floor is muffled and so alien in the dark, deserted tunnels, Jon wonders if he is dreaming. 

But the small dark figure he spies ahead is obviously not a dream. He draws closer, his hand automatically reaching for the blade at his hip. 

The black tomcat that sometimes sneaks into his chambers is hissing and spitting against the wall. His tail swaying both ways dangerously. Rhaenys sometimes fed the one-eared devil and always came back with scratches.

He sees Jon and yowls, then darts into the dark tunnels faster than an bolt loosened from a crossbow. 

"Wretched bastard." It is a woman's voice, and familiar. 

His eyebrows rise in amusement. "He's the real king of the castle I hear. Twice as old and twice as mean."

She jumps, her hand flying to the dagger at her belt. "Who's there?"

He comes closer till her face is clearer. She's scowling. "I'm beginning to think you lurk around in shadows all day."

"I could say the same about you, my lady."

"Stop calling me that. I'm Arya."

"Arya." It tastes so good on his tongue. 

She stares at him silently, then clears her throat. "Yes, Jon?"

No my prince, or my lord, just _Jon_. His stomach clenches. It’s audacious and bold, and warms his chest.

"What are you doing down here, Arya?"

"Looking for dragons." Oh, the sharp-tongued wench.

He raises an eyebrow. "Find any?"

Her eyes bore into his. "One, lurking in the dark."

"Are you always so impudent, or am I special?"

She chuckles. "My mother warns me that my mouth will get me into a lot of trouble someday."

His eyes drop to her full lips and he resists the urge to lean down and taste them. Her mother had the rights of it apparently. 

He offers her his hand. "I'd like to show you something."

She takes it. "What is it?"

"The place where dragons sleep."

"_Jon!_"

"Just a mosaic in the floor, Arya."

Mother have mercy, she was his poison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the love this story is getting makes me very happy. Thank you!


	3. Chapter 3

_Aren't you something, an original, cause it doesn't seem merely assembled _

_And I can't help but stare cause I see truth somewhere in your eyes_

He had been in council all day. His father had insisted, and matters of Aegon's ascension were to be decided. 

It had been tiresome and Jon sought out the godswood, like he had been doing for the past few days. Always hoping he would find her here. But he never did. 

Arya Stark was never still. The guards would say she was always about, sometimes the stables or Rhaenys' Garden or the Kitchen Keep. She was everywhere and yet, never there when he looked.

The woods are quiet, as he makes his way to the great oak heart tree at its centre, its large weathered trunk covered in smokeberry vines. 

Lord Stark had been at the Council, and Jon had hesitated to approach him, unsure what he should say after. His mother's family was as strange to him as the land they ruled and the gods they kept. Even if he found it oddly peaceful here in the godswood.

He sits below the oak, and works the whetstone over his blade in silence. It is some time before he looks up from his toil, acutely aware of a gaze on him. His eyes sweep across the elms and alders surrounding him, but there is no one about.

"It took you long enough. I could have slit your throat by now."

His head snaps up, above him and he sees her leap from branch to branch like a squirrel. His mouth falls open, when she swings over the last branch and lands gracefully on the bed of dragon's breath growing around the oak. As red as the sheets of his own bed.

The crushed red flowers stained her pale bare feet. And his eyes follow the line of her pale slender ankles, and up her bare calves and skinny knees. Her skin is pale and dotted with scratches and bruises, some scabbed and healing, some new. Her breeches are rolled up above her knees and hug her hips snugly where the dirty brown tunic is tucked inside. _Such a pretty picture._

"Arya."

"Jon."

"Arya." He says unable to help himself.

Her lips twitch in a smirk. "Jon?"

"I didn't know ladies in the north shaved their legs."

Her eyes widen slightly, and she drops to one knee, immediately unrolling her breeches down her exposed skin and he feels a pang of regret punch him in the gut. _Fool._

"They don't. I didn't! _You can't tell anyone!_" She looks up at him, her pretty eyes beseeching.

"Of course."

"Do you swear it?"

"On my honour."

She beams up at him. "I was in Braavos with my father for a while. It's where I met Syrio Forel, who taught me the water dance. I made some friends too, and they taught me to shave with a dirk. But it's not a very ladylike thing to do."

She seems to have made some very _unique_ friends in Braavos. Jon grins. "And you are not a lady." 

That seems to amuse her, she stands and looks down at herself. "Do I look like a lady?"

He looks at her. Her hair is pulled in a knot on top of her head, but tendrils have escaped. Leaves cling to her hair and tunic and there's smudges of dirt on her cheeks and a fresh new scratch down her chin, but her eyes shine with a light and she smiles so radiantly. He thinks she looks enchanting, splendid, a dazzling little wood nymph.

"You look beautiful."

She looks at him in surprise, a small frown on her forehead. "Don't jest. I look like a nightmare," she laughs lightly but Jon frowns, so she hurries to explain, "My father says I'm beautiful like the North. I think I like that. The North is hard and wild and _really_ beautiful."

_Does she really not know?_ "If the North looks anything like you, I think I'll love it."

Her eyes are on him, and he leans in. She blushes and worries her lip between his teeth, and he thinks he's going to go mad if she keeps this up. 

"Speaking of my father..." Were they? He hadn't noticed. "...you can't avoid him forever, you know. He's worried about you, especially now with the King stepping down from the throne."

Jon frowns. "He is?"

"Of course. He says you remind him of Lyanna, and look like a true Stark. He's right, you've got more of the North in you than you realize. You've just buried it down here." She places her palm over his heart, and he feels the heat of it through the fabric. "We are a pack, and the pack protects each other."

Jon puts his hand over hers and she smiles. "He comes here every morning, at the hour of the wolf. He sometimes sits there under the heart tree and polishes Ice." _Like you_, she doesn't say but he understands anyways.

Her hand slips from under his and she turns away, grabbing her shoes hanging from a low elm branch. He doesn't miss how she clutches the hand that had been under his behind her back, like it might do something without her leave.

"Will I see you tomorrow?" He hates that he's desperate enough to ask.

She considers him. "Would you like to meet some friends of mine?"

He scowls. "Gendry Baratheon?"

She chuckled. "He's a friend, but I was talking about friends I made in the city."

"You could make friends anywhere, couldn't you?" he asks fondly.

She shrugs. "Meet me in the dragon mosaic room tomorrow." She turns to go, then whips back eyeing his black doublet threaded with red silk, and soft doeskin boots carefully, "and maybe wear something more…_common_, or you might find your pockets picked."

He stares at her. "What kind of friends are these?"

She laughs. "They're pretty harmless, but I doubt any of them has seen such a pretty prince before." 

"You may be confusing me for my brother. Aegon is the pretty one."

She bites her lip and considers him, then thrusts her lip out in a pout and says, bold as a vixen, "You're my kind of pretty."

_Oh, seven hells._

_____

Jon is on his way to the throne room when he spies the crowd gathered in the yard. Curious, he moves closer, surprised to see Aegon practicing with...Gendry Baratheon.

Well it isn't much of practice because they both seemed to be fighting in completely opposite styles, Aegon is slashing and cutting like Arthur Dayne has taught him, and Baratheon is hacking and thrusting like... well, like a Baratheon.

That's what the men whisper, _Rhaegar and Robert come again._ The yellow horned demon of a stag hammering at the red dragon prince with his war hammer. 

But Rhaegar had defeated Robert. Killed him on the banks of the Trident with a swift thrust of his blade between his armour plates. Aegon however, is struggling to hold off Gendry's powerful thrusts. Baratheon isn't very good with a sword but he could crush the Crown Prince if he had a hammer, Jon realizes.

The men see it too, and they whisper among themselves. 

"Well fought," Jon tells Aegon later, when they are stripping off their sweaty leathers.

Aegon grunts. "I'll get him better next time."

Jon eyes the hulking form and bulging muscles of Robert's legitimized bastard and can only feel sympathy for his brother. He would be black and blue for a few days.

Aegon doesn't wait around, his pride is wounded, and he seems to be angry even though he had bested his opponent. 

Jon hung back and then approached Gendry. "I hear you were fostered at Winterfell, my lord. Did the master-at-arms not suggest a hammer?"

Blue eyes consider him silently, before he speaks. "I trained with hammer, sword and lance. Prince Aegon wanted to see if I could wield a blade as well as I could a hammer."

_This one is careful with his words, it seems. _

"Then you must be good with a hammer."

"I trained under Ser Rodrick Cassel, who is master-at-arms at Winterfell. He taught me well. But I learnt to hold a hammer when I was nine, as a blacksmith apprentice, when I was still a bastard."

"You've done well for yourself."

"For a bastard, you mean." _Maybe not, then._

Jon raises his eyebrow. "For Robert Baratheon's son, I mean."

Gendry chuckles, but it is mirthless. "Aye, the demon Lord of Storm's End, who loved the woman promised to him."

_Careful now, Baratheon._ "Too stubborn-headed to take no for an answer?"

His eyes burn a bright blue. "It seems to me that the fate of Baratheon men is tied to Stark women, my prince."

Jon tries to ignore the tingling in his hands and the beast roaring in his chest. "As are the fates of Targaryen princes."

Gendry Baratheon turns to leave and mutters, softly but surely, "Not this time." He looks at him before bowing stiffly.

_You're my kind of pretty._

"Well, we'll just have to see about that now, won't we?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you.  
I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	4. Chapter 4

_I can't ever change without you_

_You reflect me, I love that about you_

"You're late."

He was barely in the dragon mosaic room and Arya shut the gate behind him. 

"I got caught up. It's difficult to shrug off someone like Jamie Lannis—_what is it?_"

She made a face, eyeing his sword distastefully. "You can’t bring _that_ to the streets."

He put his hand on the smooth pommel of his sword. It wasn’t Valyrian steel, but was a blade worthy of a Targaryen Prince. "I have to take my sword, there's no one to protect us out there."

She shook her head. "As long as we blend in with the crowd, we have nothing to fear. But we cannot blend it with a sword like that. Besides, I brought a smaller blade." She lifted her hem to show him the dagger hidden in her boot.

His own dagger was tucked into his belt, but should he depend on that alone? Jon had been out of the castle on his own before. But this was different, he had Arya to think about now. He should have known she would come prepared though.

With a sigh, he pulled out the scabbard from his waist. The crease between her eyebrows had still not receded. With a huff, she crowded him, then with quick nimble fingers began unlacing his jerkin.

His heart thudded in his rib cage. "Wh-what are you doing?" Why was his voice cracking like a green boy?

She was too focused on the task to glance his way. "Roughing you up."

"_What?_" 

She gave him a quick, exasperated glance and tugged on the leather a bit. Then pointed to his cloak. "It's a bit too fine, you should lose it too."

He sighed and shrugged it off, rolled his sword inside and placed them on the floor. Then untucked his undershirt to complete the look. He may as well look like an unkept brigand if that’s what it took.

She reached out to help him, then pulled away suddenly as if just realizing that her efforts to disrobe him might be too forward. The room was dark, but Jon could swear he saw a blush stain her cheeks.

She cleared her throat. "Well, we should get going then." And then she turned and fled.

Jon raised his eyebrow and followed, a smile curving the corner of his mouth.

____

The city was bursting to the seams, people who had travelled to the capital from everywhere to witness the imminent wedding festivities. Jon was stunned by the sheer amount of trade and business it has brought to the city. The inns were full and the brothels busy. There was also a general aura of merriment and celebration. And the City Watch seem to have their hands full with the commotion going around. 

It was just too easy to blend in with the crowd once they had left Fishmonger's square, and made their way down the Hook. The streets had come alive with all sorts of merchandise: dyed linen, beaded jewellery, woven cloth, spices, leather armaments, clay pots and figurines. 

The wares had been set up temporarily on wooden stalls—some shaded from the sun with tanned leather or waxed cloth—luring in customers who were mostly travellers to the city. 

A common theme was the Targaryen colours of red and black. It appeared everywhere, painted upon the earthenware, in rolls of dyed fabrics, even the jewellery. 

Arya seemed to be studying a bone comb, carved prettily despite its simplicity. 

"I had one like this, made of horn and carved so delicately. But I lost it," she smiled impishly up at him. "My mother was rather cross, but I think she expected it." She sighed and walked away from the stall, shaking her head at the eager vendor. "Come on, help me look for the flowers."

He eyed the comb. The vendor tried again, "A bargain lad, for your pretty little lady, eh?" But Jon shook his head and followed her. "What flowers?"

She had slipped ahead and waved him over. "For the bride. I think she'd like that."

_Bride?_

She seemed to sense the confusion on his face. "Wenda, she works at the tavern to the south of Flea Bottom. She's marrying Galen. He works on a fishing boat out on the Rush. She says he drinks a bit too much, but he loves her more than anything, so she's going to marry him and make a man out of him. Everyone seems to want to be wed in the city these days. Wenda thinks it's romantic. I think it's all the excitement for the royal wedding. She made me promise I would come to her wedding. Do you think you'd like to come with me? I promise it will be fun."

He opened his mouth, and closed it.

There was no question about it, of course, he would go just about anywhere with her. But this was a side of her he hadn't seen before; this excited little chatterbox. It was amusing, and more than just a little endearing. "Yes, I'd like that."

She beamed. "I think she’d like some flowers, for her hair I mean. I thought the wedding would be in a godswood, or a sept. But the Septons can’t really spare the time for blessing the smallfolk, so they're going to have a small gathering at the tavern itself."

They got the flowers from an old woman with whom Arya chatted like an old friend. And it was past midday when they finally made their way towards Rhaenys Hill.

"Father says you're to break fast with us tomorrow. He seems excited to introduce you to us."

He had almost forgotten about that.

Jon had felt almost stupid when he had gone up to Ned Stark and introduced himself. It had been spontaneous, and when he had spied Ned Stark leaving the Throne Room, he had seized the opportunity. Thinking back, it seemed almost foolish, the lengths he had gone to avoid his uncle. There seemed to be something both very calm and very sad about the man who was his kin, and yet a stranger.

He had asked about how Jon was doing. Their conversation had been brief, but it had brought such relief, Jon wondered why he had not sought out the man sooner. It felt like a great weight had been shifted off his shoulders, a guilt that he had carried for as long as he had known the story of his birth.

Ned Stark did not blame him for his mother's death.

Jon had expected it, anger in his voice, the pain of having to look at him, the revulsion that he had lived while his mother had not. Long years of bitterness and hate. Things he had experienced all his life. From the King, from the Court. But none had come from Ned Stark.

If he was being honest, Jon was looking forward to tomorrow. Almost as much as he had been to seeing Arya today. 

He glanced at her sideways, smiling lopsidedly. "He was very kind. I look forward to meeting your acquaintance tomorrow, Arya."

She laughed, the sun shone brighter, and he joined her.

____

The ceremony had been brief. Vows spoken to each other at the water fountain in the square. The fountain was one of the many smaller stone ones that peppered the streets and were used as a fresh water source in the city. One of his father's ideas to improve the condition of the city's inhabitants. 

The stone statue from whose feet the water's spewed was a triangulate of the Mother, Maiden and Crone. A fitting place as any to get married.

The bride and groom were dressed in their best, smiling and laughing with their guests. The bride wasn't someone he would call beautiful exactly, but she had sharp, intelligent eyes, and a friendly disposition that everyone gravitated towards. With thick red hair braided with flowers, and a smile that lit up her face, she made a very pretty picture. And the groom was besotted. 

She had accepted Jon's presence there with no more than an amused snicker and a teasing, "Another stray, this one?" 

Arya had chuckled. "Something like that."

His eyes scanned the small crowd and found her immediately. Her grey eyes bright as she observed the ceremonies. How she had made friends with a tavern girl in a city as huge as this, was anyone's guess. There were others too, a tanner's apprentice, an old fisherman who was blind in one eye, the grumpy barmaid with a mole on her chin. She had introduced them to him like they were old friends.

After the ceremony, the crowd moved to the tavern, the married couple leading the guests hand-in-hand. Tankards of ale were passed around, and people began to toast. There was no order in which they went, they'd clap their hands on the table and clear their throat dramatically, all while the crowd cheered or groaned at yet another toast made. 

"You already had a turn Ered, sit ya ass down!" Someone pulled Ered back to his seat—he meant to make another toast— and the drinking continued.

Jon had never been to anything quite so exciting. It was chaos and laughter. He loved it.

Arya slipped into the bench beside him, balancing a tankard of ale. She gave him a big smile. "I've never had so much before. But seeing it's the occasion and all."

Jon grinned, "You might want to go easy with that. Trust me, the headache's not worth it."

"Or the wench who'd steal your purse while you sleep it off," the man across from him declared crossly.

Arya snickered. "Gods, _again_?"

"Aye, again! Had sweet words to say, this one. A sweet little _thief!_"

"They're always sweet, ya miserable lout. You ought to think with your head, not your cock." The barmaid shouted, then turned to Arya, "Come now, don't go whilin' on the bench with these old sods. They're clearing the tables there for a dance. Go on you two."

Arya took a big gulp of her ale and turned away from the bench. The tanner's apprentice, Pieter, Jon remembered; was waving out to her from the other side.

She turned to him and put her hand out, smiling charmingly. He took it and followed her, grinning like an idiot.

The dance had begun, a slow circle of guests moving to the tune of the fiddle. They joined the circle, clapping their hands and stomping their feet in a folk dance that he had never learnt. 

It didn’t seem to matter, everyone who could seemed to be dancing, or trying to. It was an unorchestrated movement of limbs, that somehow coalesced harmonically with the music.

He clapped and cheered with the rest of them when the dance ended, the energy was palpable. Arya giggled and something in his stomach flipped at the sound. Jon wondered if the ale had gone to his head.

The one-eyed fisherman took out his scarf and broke into a drunken dance the crowd seemed to recognise and appreciate with catcalls. A couple of girls joined him, taking each arm; and they soon everyone was cheering them on.

Pieter joined them, dragging a blushing young maid with him, and soon the rest fell in. A young man with sandy hair, tugged on Arya's arm, but she shook her head. "I don't know how."

"I'll show you," he insisted and she went with him reluctantly.

He should have asked her first. But before he could spend more time lamenting on that fact, a girl was pulling him with her. Jon noticed a splatter of freckles on her nose and cheeks that made her look incredibly young and more than just a little pretty.

In hindsight, he felt guilty for not paying his partner more attention, but at the moment, his eyes unapologetically wandered and rested on only one girl. 

She was slightly taller than her partner, her dark hair braided, but coming loose around her face, the dark grey fabric of her dress, swirling around her ankles in a flurry. She was no less mesmerizing in cheap roughspun, than she had been in silks the first time he had seen her.

He should not have stared, but he could hardly help himself.

He couldn't remember how he had had gotten there, but he suddenly seemed to be standing before her, taking her hand from the sandy-haired lad, who mumbled a weak protest but left them. 

The fiddle picked up a tune again, and they danced together, hand-in-hand. They parted—their eyes still locked on each other— the men circling the women, moving in the opposite direction. The women locked elbows, their feet moving faster and then together in synchronized symphony as the tempo raced to its end.

They came together again; his hand fell to her waist and he stepped closer. Her eyes widened slightly; mouth hung open on a noiseless gasp. The song came to an end, with her in the circle of his arms.

A great whoop of cheers and clapping brought them out of the daze.

Her mouth snapped shut and she clapped with the rest, a little breathless, but otherwise unaffected.

_Did she even know what she did to him?_

He might have groaned in frustration, but suddenly her hand curled at his chest in a way that communicated the urgency. He blinked down at her.

"Arya?"

"Robb's here!" her voice was a whisper and he leaned close to hear.

"What?"

"Robb, my brother! And Jory, and-_oh gods!_ Gendry brought them here, the _idiot!_ We have to go now!"

She wasn't making a lot of sense, but it didn’t even matter. He took her hand and weaved them through the crowd, heading straight for the back door.

"Not that way, they'll see us! Come on, the kitchen opens to the alley." They hurried to the door to their left.

"_Arya, is that you?_"

Then they ran.

___

They tumbled out of the alley and ran down the street, weaving through the rush of people going about their chores as the day drew to an end.

Someone had followed them out of the main hall into the kitchen, but they hadn’t stopped to check, especially once they heard the pursuing footsteps in the alley. The sky had turned an angry orange-red, the sun almost sunk into the horizon. 

In a small detached moment, Jon realized that they were still holding hands; and also— as if to recompense for that happy fact— that it was a little pointless to run, especially if her father's men had recognised her already.

Breathless, he pulled her into an empty stable attached to an inn, and they crouched under the window on the loft looking out into the street.

“Do you see them?” Jon gasped, trying to distinguish the people out on the street.

“No, if they followed us, we lost them." She curled under the window beside him, catching her breath slowly.

A few moments passed in silence and then she turned to look at him.

_—Did we just-?_

_—Yes_

She bit her lip, trying not to laugh, but Jon could hardly hold it in himself. He broke first, with a small breathless chuckle and she followed, covering her mouth as if horrified that she should laugh now.

They quietened immediately when they heard the shouts from below. Jon peeked out.

He spotted Robb Stark, by his shock of red hair and the sword at his side, and a couple of Stark men. They were talking to the people on the street, but everyone just shook their head. Gendry Baratheon came out of the inn, shaking his head, and the party moved on finally.

“I never thought Gendry would bring them here. He grew up here you know, but he hates talking about it.” She was beside him, leaning against his arm as she squeezed herself into the gap of the window to watch with him.

“You couldn’t have known. Are you going to be in terrible trouble?”

She glanced at him, the orange sunset reflecting in her eyes, “Oh, I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me. Are you in trouble?”

_Ever since I laid eyes on you._

“Only if your brother thinks I have behaved inappropriately.”

“But, you haven’t!” Her eyes widened as she considered that, a blush creeping down her neck.

He glanced down at her mouth, so close to his, their breath mingling in a warm, moist mist. “No. But I’ve thought about it.”

Her eyes were two silver saucers as they watched him. “About what?”

“Kissing you.”

The air was still, their gazes held, and all he could hear was the soft intake of her breath.

Then she leaned forward and kissed him.

A lover’s kiss, Jon thought. Soft but deeply sensuous and over before he could return it. As exhilarating as the words that followed it: “_I’ve thought about it too.”_

Trouble had never sounded so sweet to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience, writing has not been easy, and I am glad I could finally get this chapter out.  
I hope you enjoy it!

**Author's Note:**

> So I have been writing, very very slowly, but I promise I have. And today while looking for inspiration I came across this little piece laying in my notes. It was mostly edited so I posted it. Its a little ficlet that I have a story for, which I may update down the line.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it. Leave a thought if you did :)


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